


OXY

by Vigils



Category: Death Stranding (Video Games)
Genre: Gangbang, Homo Demens (Death Stranding), Humiliation, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Pre-Canon, Tooth Trauma, fag bashing, higgs is a teenager lol, little bit of omo
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-29
Updated: 2020-01-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:26:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22469356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vigils/pseuds/Vigils
Summary: Now and then, a young Higgs gets an order come through for a delivery of hormone drugs, but more often than not, there's simply not enough synethic oxytocin to go around. Thankfully, there's other ways for men to get their hands on a basic human need.
Relationships: Higgs Monaghan/Homo Demens
Comments: 2
Kudos: 39





	OXY

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> read the tags, dont like dont read, otherwise bon appetit

The man sitting across the table from him is no 3 star chef, but he still looks at Higgs like he’s a meal. Once that kind of look might’ve made a younger Monaghan bolt, but he’s come a long way since then. Got older, got _better_ , got confident. It’s muggy in the tent serving as the camp’s main ‘office’, which gives Higgs a good excuse to hook a sly finger under the collar of his unflattering waterproof coveralls, flashing a coy smirk and a hint of pale throat. In their line of work that much is a damn treat. He polishes off the crew leader’s charity, something nondescript from a packet, not great, but not awful either. Could say the same about the guy who made it.

He doesn’t look like much, for being the one who runs things around here. He’s pretty short, quiet, mousy-ish, older-looking than whatever his years probably add up to, if anyone’s still counting. And he’s been ogling Higgs for so long that it’s almost a wonder he hasn’t ordered him bent over his desk in repayment for the meal. _Almost_. The young porter’s already delivered the goods, though. Getting up, Higgs pats the metal box lying next to his empty tray, tightly corseted in yellow damage sensor tape, and flashes the recipient a winning grin.

“Should find it a good round 100%. Whatever the hell it is. Real heavy for its size, you know.”

“Yeah, I know,” says the crew leader. Deadpan. Gruff. “I’ve uh... carried ‘em myself before.”

The kid’s grin falters but doesn’t fail. The older porter adds, “Not trying to guilt me into tossing you an extra bone or something are ya?”

Higgs smirks inwardly at the insinuation, but, ah, he’s just dreaming. He doesn’t look like the type who’d take advantage of a young boy like that. Like him.

“No siree,” Higgs replies (lies) instead of pushing it. The food and the likes are all he needs. “I’m an honest porter. Won’t ever try and swindle a client. I mean if you ask me, I’m one of the last few out here who you can depend on.”

“That right?” The older man stands up too, circling round the table towards his dinner guest.

His eyes are making the up-down again, and Higgs knows what he’s taking in. The pristine upkeep of his outfit and gear, sure, the little golden accents he’s peppered in over time. If there was ever a porter who took pride in his appearance and his work, it was this kid from the road. But there’s also the suggestion beneath it all: a tall frame, rangy, a little thin, but strong enough where it counts; his face, a little prettier for the sharp wings painted alongside his eyes, and for the frame of hair fresh-dyed honey blond, a little longer in the back than in the front. The other porter… yeah, he finds him pretty. Not often you got a side-order like this.

But for all that, he doesn’t touch Higgs, not even when they’re nearly nose to nose. Or would be, if Higgs didn’t have several inches on the man.

“Got something to say about my set-up?” the leader asks instead.

Higgs blinks down at him. It’s been a while since he’s been intimidated by someone smaller, and most folks are. Through the shoulders and chest, though, this guy’s solid muscle. Neither of them break eye contact for a long, tense moment. A vein twitches below the shorter man’s eye. Quickly, Higgs makes a mental count of the pairs of fists and boots within earshot just beyond the zippered doorway. Half a dozen, he thinks. Maybe more.

Finally, he takes a deep breath. “Nothin’ bad,” he assures the older man, and smiles, though a familiar prickle on the back of his neck signals the bunching of his muscles as his body prepares to slip into a fight.

It never comes.

“Just fucking with you,” the leader rasps. “You’re a good kid.” He gestures to the exit leading out of his office. Higgs exhales as he follows, not realising he’d been holding his breath.

Out in the main ‘room’ of the camp’s tent-canvas complex, the rest of the crew mill around on tables and old metal chairs, some pacing the dirt floor, visibly restless in the way only porters can be. As Higgs passes through, some of their gazes follow him out, dark and sticky on his back.

The air outside is similar. Bruised clouds lie heavy on the horizon, bringing with them the muggy tang of ozone, though no wind shakes the trees. Higgs watches them as he shrugs his pack back over his shoulders and tightens the straps, and as he does, the crew leader watches _him_ with that openly hungry stare that is, all at once, so weirdly guarded. He’s a mind to ask the guy what the fuck he thinks he’s staring at. But he’s still in his camp, surrounded by his men, and he still needs his likes.

So instead, he quips. “Gonna walk me home?”

The older man’s face wrinkles in what might be called a smile and he wordlessly falls in stride, crossing the few yards of campground that it takes to reach the old generator where the visiting porter parked his trike. 

“Better stay dry, mister, timefall’s comin’,” says Higgs, checking the placement of his radio and odradek.

He receives a grunt in response.

“I can _sense_ it,” he continues smartly. “Before it starts, I get little prickles all over my skin, like electricity. Cool, huh?”

He looks up from fastening his gloves, and sees that the crew leader’s looking right at him. Then again, when has he stopped? Still he’s tight-lipped. Just sort of rubs his fingers over his beard like he’s absorbing a thought. Layers notwithstanding, Higgs feels a little hot under the collar. He takes a shaky breath and bites his lip.

“Well. You know the name.” He gives the older guy a last once-over before pulling the rain mask over his face for good. “You ever want anythin’ else done... Anythin’ at all... Hit me up.”

One baby-blue eye winks, outlined in kohl, and Higgs knows that’ll seal the deal.

...The crew leader laughs for the first time. It’s a gruff little huff of a laugh, kind of sexy, quite frankly, but it’s a laugh all the same, and it’s all he gives Higgs before he turns on his heel. No thumbs up, no pat on the back. Yanking the hood and mask back off, Higgs yells after him, something clumsy and inarticulate about likes and Grade and oxy, something that forces him to shudder to a halt and swallow his pride afterwards. Something that makes him sound like a fucking junkie.

Not that the guy seems to care. Without looking back, the leader says, “Yeah, you’ll get ‘em,” and slips back into the main tent.

Higgs plans on riding the trike into the middle of it to give him a piece of his mind about dismissing him like that, right up until the moment he realises he’s been jacking the throttle over and over and the trike isn’t starting.

“Piece of _shit._ ” Knew he should have gotten the battery checked at that last prepper’s place. 

After a few minutes on his knees in the dirt checking the underside of the chassis though, he’s not sure it _is_ the battery and he can’t find any obvious fault with the motors either and then his radio is beeping, his partner’s voice crackling through asking him where the hell he is and doesn’t he know the rain’s coming and their contractor is waiting?

“I told you, I took a side order, _fuck_!” Higgs’ strung out reply shuts the boy on the radio up. Then it’s silence, he’s alone, and his trike still won’t start.

Boots crunch their way across gravel. Without looking, Higgs estimates a couple pairs, maybe three at a push, approaching from behind while his fingers are still probing the innards of the vehicle for any clue of a fault.

“Having trouble, kid?” asks a voice too deep to be the leader’s. Too sing-songy. 

It takes all of Higgs’ willpower to turn and face the speaker with a straight face, if not a smile, knowing his charm’s wasted on these stingy fucks. That’s when he gets a look at the approaching porter: all two meters of him, dense muscle and sinew and _scar_ , most notably one that cleaves his nose ridge in two, curated from what looks like decades on the job. He’s not alone either, flanked by five of his partners. They’re all vets but they look frail next to him.

Lot of hands for one little trike.

“Nah, everything’s swell,” Higgs says, forcing a low laugh.

“Really? ‘Cos it looks to me like you’re a little stuck.”

Higgs swears he hears it: the note of mockery, unhidden, pushed even to the point of theatrics, and when he turns fully, the expression he sees smeared on the scarred man’s lips wipes any doubt from his mind. Then he sees the small, ragged tangle of wires dangling from another porter’s glove, and the blood drains from his face. 

“ _Fuck_.”

The six men have already reached him by the time Higgs gets to his feet. One hand reaches behind to grasp almost protectively at his ravaged trike, but the other is twitching, as though thinking with a mind of its own how it can grab the cut wires from that bastard’s grip. 

Some of them mutter between themselves. “ _Aw, look, he’s twitchy too..._ ” He realises how sunken-eyed they all are, pupils black and blown. 

Fucking MULEs.

His attention is taken up by the scarred man though, who runs leather-clad fingers through a scraggle of greasy hair while his eyes narrow, staring Higgs down. Sizing him up. “Maybe we can help each other out? See, we’re kinda stuck too.”

“Yeah? How’s that? Can’t ya figure out how a basic exchange...”

Higgs’ back-talk fizzles out, because a slighter man in stained mechanic’s overalls sidles up alongside him and slides a wayward palm down his hip. It’s the first time he’s been touched by a stranger in… he can’t even remember. Higgs shoves the handsy mechanic off on instinct, but the movement unbalances himself and sends him half-stumbling into the sweaty bulk of another porter, probably skulking right behind him all along, who grabs a fistful of flesh through his suit and squeezes hard. 

“ _Nice ass_.”

“ _Good thing too, with a face like that_.”

The laughter’s lost on him.

“I already delivered what you ordered,” he reminds them, mustering something that’s meant to be a grin but slips into a sneer. “I got nothin’ else for you.”

Carefully but deliberately, he pushes the groping hand away, which is when he hears it.

_“Look at that. Little fag’s holdin’ back.”_

That stings. He looks into the eye of the porter who mutters it and he isn’t even looking at Higgs’ face, his gaze is vacant and hungry, wandering between his tall, underdeveloped frame and some far-off nowhere while his palm fondles the bulge in his pants. The meaty clutch on Higgs’ ass roams lower.

The realisation dawns upon the young Monaghan that he’s nothing but a damn fool. To think this job was ever about cargo... To think a whole crew of experienced porters would need to hire a _kid_ to fetch a package for them...

Not that it quells his inclination to keep up a tough act, apparently. He takes a shaky breath. Spits out the only line of defense he knows. “I got _nothin’ else_ for you. Now kindly take your dirty fuckin’ hands off the goods.”

It comes out weaker than he intended, as does the elbow aimed at his molester’s ribs.

Several hands grab him as soon as his attention is turned, sweeping his legs out from under him and slamming his shoulders down onto the frame of the trike. Protests die in his throat when he realises they have him pinned on his own vehicle. The scarred man’s sidles up to him and presses his knee in between Higgs’ thighs, leaning in until his sour breath scalds his cheek.

“Better watch your mouth, boy.”

Higgs wants to spit in his face. He ain’t his Daddy—he ain’t even the boss around here—but he keeps tight-lipped. The man’s knee goes back and forth, grinding into his dick through the layers of ‘protection’. Fat load of good they do now.

“Hey. I heard you care about your Porter Grade. You want those sweet likes now dontcha?”

The boy swears under his breath but doesn’t answer, because even through the pain he can tell his cock’s getting stiff, and he doesn’t want it, he _needs_ it, like he needs to breathe, to eat, to be _known_ , but to say anything would make him sound like a junkie gagging for a fix. He would sound like _them_. And his pride won’t stand for that.

So he listens. 

  
  
  


_“We can’t survive off likes alone. Not anymore.”_

_“There’s been no oxy supply through here for god knows how long. You know how that makes a man feel?”_

_“Be a good kid and you’ll bag yourself a good deal here.”_

  
  
  


“Oxy, huh.”

Maybe once, the mind would’ve jumped to opiates. Brand-named corporate-pushed antidotes for the modern pain. Now it’s symptomatic of something way more addictive. Something much harder to get your hands on, even in a place like this.

But Higgs doesn’t fucking believe it. And he’s seen nothing of the world.

He scoffs it out. “You bunch of assholes can _fuck each other_ if that’s the issue.”

The guy on him is smirking, and then he isn’t.

For a blinding moment, Higgs thinks someone’s thrown a rock at his face. After his vision clears, he sees blood on the scarred man’s knuckles, _his_ blood, and a second later the stuff floods his mouth like saltwater, hot and bitter. He’s been punched before. Lost most of his milk teeth that way. But never by a man who had no right to lay hands on him. 

Higgs turns his head and spits, as far as he can with three men holding him down, at least, and something solid shoots out. He blinks. A cuspid and a sharp premolar glisten briefly on the dirt, then _poof_. The scarred man snatches a fistful of his hair and wrenches his eyes back front.

“I told you to watch your _fucking_ tongue.”

Maybe he should be more careful with a madman’s knee on his jewels, but despite himself, a giggle bubbles up past a split lip. “Didn’t know beatin’ a boy bloody could help with your little problem. But go ahead. Try it. You and your dicksuckin’ buddies ain’t _shit_ —”

Another punch shudders his jaw from the left. An imperfect mirror of the first; this one doesn’t loose any more teeth, though he swears he hears them rattle in their sockets. Ragged edges catch soft tissues, and dribble runs pink down his chin.

“Jesus, you’re even uglier now. Turn him over, I don’t wanna look at his face when I fuck him.”

They lift him up like he’s nothing and slam him chest-first into the seat of his own trike. Funny. That’s the first time he really struggles.

Maybe it’s the indignity of being violated on what should have been his getaway vehicle. Maybe he’s just a fucking idiot, and it’s taken til this point for him to accept the reality of what’s happening, of what they want, when they’re ripping the zipper at the back of his suit open, and then his pants, and then cold air is kissing his ass and someone’s leather glove—he doesn’t even know whose—is prying his cheeks apart.

_“If the boss can get a slice of this peach, it should be good enough for the rest of us too, no?”_

The man gives a low, contented whistle. The kid’s hole is pretty and pink and damn near perfect, sits in a halo of dark blond adolescent hair and clenches shyly when he runs a finger over it. When the glove-tip pushes in, the young porter bucks and fights, but the other men have him in a vice. The digit forces its way in deeper, thick and bone-dry, one knuckle, then two, even as the boy’s whole body tenses up against the invading hand. He still doesn’t make a peep.

“Jeez, boss wasn’t kidding. He’s tight as a virgin.”

Higgs worries the gash in his lip wider rather than dignifying them with a whimper. 

“Couldn’t’ve loosened him up for us?”

“Don’t worry about it. It ain’t his first time. Is it, you little _slut?”_

The verbal jab’s punctuated by a very physical one, and he does cry out then, a nasally, laughable yelp as he jolts away from the pain of a second finger crammed in alongside the first, bruising his hips against the cold, hard frame of the trike. The man grunts as he drags his fingers back out and watches the delicate rim strain white, then shoves them back in, digging out a space for all of them where one wasn’t freely given.

An unseen hand grabs Higgs’ half-hard cock from underneath him and gives it a few shakes. _“Think he likes that.”_

_“Yeah? Think he’d like a cock in there too?”_

He barely pays attention to the sound of belts unbuckling behind him. One of his tormentors circles around the trike, taking hold of his jaw with the same meathooks that first grabbed his ass. This bastard smiles down with red-rimmed eyes—almost sweet—then tips Higgs’ head forward, giving him a nice close-up of his other meaty hand as it jerks off a fat, stubby cock, half-soft, the bulbous head pale and visibly crusted with off-white grime as it pops in and out of a sweaty palm.

“Put that thing near my mouth and you’ll lose it,” Higgs’ growl claws its way out from somewhere deep-rooted and feral. “I swear, I’ll bite your goddamn dick off.”

It’s useless in the end.

He can’t see it, but he hears a click. The cold kiss of a _gun_ against the hollow of his temple is unmistakable. Whichever one of them’s holding it leans close and spits in his ear. _“Do that and you’ll lose more than just your pretty teeth.”_

Higgs has been seconds from death before. Misjudged footing, hypothermia. Had the life choked out of him. This is different. He can feel the weight, the metal like ice on his skin, and it wouldn’t take seconds, it’d be over in a blink, one finger crooking just so, then _boom_ , nothing, gone.

Terror floods his body and freezes the breath in his throat. But he knows that tumbling over into blind panic right now would get him killed. His eyes squeeze shut. He lets the other man slide a thumb between his lips, then press down on the raw, bloody cavity where his teeth used to be.

He realises his DOOMs was never really ‘like electricity’. This is.

It surges, shoots through his skull, ice-hot down his spine, into the beds of his fucking nails. But any screams are quickly muffled by the wad of sour, semi-flaccid cock that’s crammed into his open mouth. Someone else grabs a fistful of his pretty blond tresses and _pulls_ , so roughly it rips follicles from skin, then pushes his nose back down into the bulk of unwashed fat and pubic hair. Jaw and scalp alike are used as leverage for the foul-tasting shaft to pump into his face. Loose foreskin and filth drag across exposed nerves with every stroke. It’s agony, but it goes on until he gags, then they wrench his head away, a claggy trail of blood-thick saliva stringing from his lips.

All the better to hear him.

He blubs, “ _Pl-ease… please..._ ” and they don’t miss it. The sweet sound of a desperate boywhore begging for what he’d been holding back.

Thankfully the scarred man’s finally done trying to loosen up his taut hole, and hacks a gob of spit between his cheeks, smearing it into the now-sore cleft with his own blunt prick. This one, too, is only half-hard. Not that the fact does anything to ease the feeling of his asshole tearing as two fingers prise it open, baring the way for the thick head to force its way in.

He chokes down his groans. The lack of lubrication splits him open as the pressure works its way deeper inside, spreading up his back in unbearable waves.

But even through the pain, Higgs feels a worm of shame crawl its way in. It speaks with a voice that’s not a voice, coming from some cesspit of the mind as old as it is deep, and it tells him: _they can’t even get hard for you. Why would they, for a worthless cocksleeve with a face like yours?_

This ugly caricature of sex is just a necessity. It’s raw animal survival. That’s all that drives the rutting junkie as he digs his nails into Higgs’ thighs, grunting and gnashing his teeth until he finally finds purchase. In sweat and blood. The poor boy looks around but there’s no sign of their boss, who was kind, just the rest of them, dicks in hands, a bunch of sick fucks already itching for their turn.

First in line starts slamming into him in earnest. Higgs buries his face in the trike’s faded leather seat and fights hard not to scream, nor to pay attention to the way his cock is throbbing with every bruising thrust inside him. He bites back the tears. Bites down into the broken roots of his teeth. The next man to yank his head up to service his cock gets a throat full of blood. It’s more moisture than his ass is allowed; the added wetness just serves to make the porter groan in satisfaction as he fucks it into the back of his mouth with a nauseating squelch.

Before long, Higgs is almost grateful to suck down anything that isn’t the taste of blood.

It seems to go on for hours. Time has always been irrelevant in the black void behind shut-tight eyes, after all, but he wishes he ceased to exist in that moment. Instead the matter of his body remains, damnably, fuckably _real._ Pliable, worthless, fagslut _matter_ that’s bent and pounded and passed around at their whim. A body that doesn’t care what his soul wants.

He doesn’t know when he began grinding his dick against the trike seat. It’s pressed against the soaked leather, leaking precum from sheer overstimulation. All that’s clear is that he’s trying desperately to muffle his moans around a mouthful of cock, and that by now, he’s bobbing his head of his own accord. Like a starving boy he sucks and swallows in a simulacrum of the way his ass is getting fucked into a bloody ruin.

_“He’s gonna cum,”_ someone breathlessly jeers, _“He’s close, I can feel it! Fuck, I want him lookin’ at me when he busts his load—”_

He’s flipped onto his back to face his undoing: the oil-smeared mechanic, sweating and panting as he fucks right into the place that makes Higgs’ eyes roll back in his head. He wants to look anywhere _but_ him. But he can’t, one of them is _everywhere_ , and there’s leather ‘round his jaw, in his mouth, peeling his damn eyelids down so he has no fucking choice but to watch his rapist’s lips moving, the words coming out. The words not his.

“You like that, pretty boy? Huh? You gonna cum for me, you little faggot? You gonna cum for daddy? Cum for your daddy. _Cum for daddy. Cum for Daddy.”_

He does. In shame, in tears, spluttering _fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck_ until it loses its meaning and he’s red from head to chest. He cums so much he doesn’t even clock the rank wetness already pooled in the torn remains of his suit. 

Finally, mercy. One of Higgs’ wrists is released, the prickle of blood rushing back into starved muscles scarcely a consideration as he fumbles for his cock and pumps out the last few spurts, chasing the tail-end of orgasm with careless desperation. Then the oxytocin hits his system, and he _sobs._

It’s worse than pissing himself. It’s something he’s never shown, never done for anyone in the world. Not even _him_. His nose runs freely as the moment takes over, inky tears spilling down his cheeks and carving tracks through the clotted blood and precum smeared all over his face, trickling down his bare throat to the blotchy skin beyond.

The mechanic jolts to his own sloppy climax somewhere in the thick of it. His friends quickly wrench him off, though, throwing him to the dirt still shuddering. Apparently they don’t appreciate the extra lubrication. Or maybe they were meant to drag out the fun as long as they could. Either way, no one immediately comes back to pin down Higgs’ other hand, and the one still restrained is held only lightly, the boy looking too fucked-out to pose much of a threat anymore.

Higgs knows it. Knows his makeup is wrecked. That he probably looks nothing like a professional now, at least not one you’d trust. What he looks like is a cheap whore.

The scarred man is back between his legs and busy spitting up his cock again when Higgs thinks about his knife.

It’s small, well-concealed under a thin plate of armour over his heart. Where a favourite toy should be: a place reserved for precious things, easily accessible when the time comes. He can reach it. He can _use it_. It’s nothing he hasn’t done before.

The truth, of course, is that he could have done it all along, if he’d really, truly wanted to... but sometimes the truth doesn’t bear dwelling on.

The porter with the scars shoves a thick thumb in his sore, dripping hole, and wiggles it. The action’s almost playful. The way Higgs’ brain rolls old memories back, like clips on a fuzzy pre-stranding media player, that’s almost playful too.

Three of the five are out of sight. The fourth has only a loose one-handed grip on the boy’s left arm, and the scarred bastard is tied up assessing the damage to his ass.

Higgs sees his chance while they’re distracted, and he takes it. Rips the knife handle from its sheath and _strikes_ in one fluid movement, aims for the scarred man’s throat, teeth bare, bloodied, _precise_ — 

—for a second the young porter doesn’t understand why his body has stopped mid-motion and his knife is no longer in his hand. His ears are ringing. He looks down, sees the gold blade lying at his feet, spotless, and then the blood, seeping from a coin-sized hole in his belly.

**Author's Note:**

> bonus hole ed. coming some day


End file.
